


Erratic Oscillation Part III

by flamethrower



Series: Re-Entry: Journey of the Whills [38]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, GFY, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 01:24:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3099824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No true Sith can ever be locked away for long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Erratic Oscillation Part III

**Author's Note:**

> betabetabeta - MerryAmelie for the official "do not fuck this up" beta, but got consistent input from Norcumi, wordmage, and Dogmatix. Dogmatix gets extra props for getting me through a really annoying sticky spot.
> 
> ....not THAT kind of sticky spot. You lovely pervs. *G*
> 
> See Notes at the end for a Warning.

Obi-Wan awoke some time after dawn lit the sky. He felt scraped raw, and possibly hungover. Also, he’d passed out on a cold stone bench, which didn’t help matters.

“I have no idea what in the hell you were thinking,” he muttered to himself. He did _not_ know how to cope with last night, and at the moment he hurt too much to even try.

Ulic was also not impressed, when Obi-Wan walked into the kitchen. “What the fuck did you break?” he asked in a harsh voice. “Because believe me, it takes a hell of a lot to get the tenacious burr that is Qui-Gon Jinn to leave, but you’ve managed it.”

Obi-Wan hadn’t realized it was possible to feel worse, for the ache in his chest to feel like it was cutting off his ability to breathe. “I—”

Ulic’s expression softened. “Oh, Obi-Wan,” he murmured. “I’m sorry. It isn’t that bad.”

 _Yes, it is,_ Obi-Wan thought. “Leave?” he asked, his voice cracking on the single word.

“Well, not Mortis,” Ulic admitted. “He can’t, not unless he either goes _all_ the way back, or he wants to cause one hell of a clusterfuck in your timeline. Mortis disguises the fact that you both exist in two places at once right now, but outside of those bounds…” He shrugged. “I do not want to fix that problem.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t think of anything useful to say in response, so he elected for a strategic retreat. “Excuse me. I’m going out,” he explained, when Ulic moved as if to follow. “Fuck off, please.”

Ulic raised his hands in surrender, shaking his head. “You can’t run forever.”

Obi-Wan looked back over his shoulder to glare at the ancient Jedi. “If I were to run,” he snarled, “I would have fucking well done it last night, before I opened my damned mouth.”

He went outside, skirting the courtyard and the too-serene ocean shore. The footpath that meandered around the house’s small jut of land suited his mood, making him think about breath and distance, calculating slope and possibility of injury as he ran its course. The land was old and windswept, which kept it clear of bramble, but it was still a series of sharp ups and downs as it followed the cliff’s edge.

Obi-Wan didn’t stop until he was gasping for air, his breath rattling in his chest. A Drop of Fire hadn’t butchered his physical health as much as being gutted by a lightsaber, but he was still run down, still trying to build himself back up.

He stood at the edge of the cliff face, letting the wind cool his sweat-soaked skin. His right hand was gripping his left arm, as if the patterns beneath could be felt through his sleeve. He knew how the timeline ran. Everything that happened here would eventually be memory for his mate…and fuck, but he was not up for a divorce.

 _No,_ Obi-Wan ordered himself, fingers tightening around his arm. _Knock it off._ Last night was horrible, and it _hurt_ , but he refused to admit that it was so severe as to make either of them desire to unravel the Lifebond.

He received no warning, as if even the Force itself hadn’t realized what was about to happen. One moment he was standing on the solid rock of the cliff face. The next, he was falling. Old instincts made him kick out, boot meeting stone that was still solid enough to give him a bit of leverage to kick off from, in a possibly futile attempt to avoid the worst of the landslide.

In the time that it took him to realize he could just _leave_ , something huge and solid slammed into him. Sparks danced over blackness.

Hitting the icy water woke him up. He was being pushed rapidly towards the bottom of the ocean by a heavy weight against his back. Most of his air was gone, driven from his lungs by both impacts. Water was pressing him against what must have been stone, keeping him from breaking out of the uncontrolled dive.

There were shadows below him—the rock was creating its own shadow. Obi-Wan held onto his patience, trying to ignore the new sparks dancing across his vision as his body recognized both injury and lack of oxygen.

It almost didn’t work. He could feel the briefest moment of surface contact, and then he was walking through shadow just before the stone could crush him. It was less skill and more instinct that saved him; he emerged from another shadow near the water’s surface and immediately kicked upwards.

The shadow was being cast by one of the larger outcroppings of rock that lined the coast. Obi-Wan reached out for a handhold just before a wave shoved him directly into it. He grabbed ahold before the water could knock him down and clung to slippery cold stone, gasping for breath.

 _Fuck, I did not need that,_ he thought in stunned amazement.

Before he could recover his wits, there was sudden pressure at his waist. Obi-Wan looked down and let out a strangled cry of surprise. A tentacle, easily as thick as his own thigh, was busy trying to pry him free.

 _A Person!_ he heard. _A Person! It has been eons since there was Person!_

The words jolted Obi-Wan enough to realize he could sense no danger, just intense curiosity. He released his hold on the stone. The tentacle lifted him into the air just as the largest squid he had ever seen broke the surface.

 _Person!_ it sang joyfully. It was deep blue in color, though the blue darkened to black at the edges of its features and on the bottom of its tentacles. _There really is a Person!_

Fuck, Obi-Wan thought in bewildered dismay. The squid was talking to him.

 _Er, hello?_ he ventured.

 _Person who Speaks!_ The squid’s grip remained gentle, but it did slowly swing Obi-Wan back and forth.

The motion abruptly ceased. _Person is damaged,_ the squid said in a tone of complete disapproval.

Obi-Wan blinked a few times. His head was aching terribly, making it hard to concentrate. Also, he was still having trouble grasping the fact that he was being waved about by a giant fucking squid.

_I just had a rock fall on me._

_That, too_ , the squid replied. _You are leaking red. That is Bad._

The squid turned around—Obi-Wan shut his eyes when the too-swift movement almost gave him motion sickness—and stretched out its long tentacle. In seconds, he was being deposited on the sandy shore nearest the ruined cliffside.

 _Come back when you are less damaged_. _I wish to Play._

 _Okay,_ Obi-Wan said, in complete bafflement. He had no idea what “Play” entailed. He hoped it didn’t involve being flung twenty kilometers out to sea in a game of catch.

The squid disappeared beneath the waves, with nothing to prove that it had even existed in the first place. Obi-Wan realized, too late, that he hadn’t even thanked the squid for the rescue. He’d been in the process of rescuing himself, but it was always nice to have help…even if it was weird help.

Ulic popped into existence beside him. Obi-Wan reeled away from the other man’s sudden appearance and almost fell right back into the damned ocean.

Ulic stared at him as he recovered his balance, and then looked at the new pile of broken stones where the cliff had been. The ancient foot trail was still visible on one of the half-submerged boulders.

“Kid, you are a fucking disaster waiting to happen.”

Obi-Wan glared at him. He wanted to argue, but Ulic sort of had a point. Even Anakin thought he had a target painted on his back.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said finally, turning away from the rubble. He needed to wash off the salt before it stiffened his hair and clothes, and the ocean had been _cold_.

“You’re bleeding!” Ulic called.

“Do not give a fuck!” Obi-Wan yelled back. Now that the shock was wearing off, his head and back ached, and his hands were burning. He glanced down to find multiple shallow cuts across his palms.

The pain was enough to nudge him into true awareness. His steps slowed as something rather important occurred to him. “Ulic.”

“What?” Ulic asked. It didn’t surprise Obi-Wan very much that Ulic had followed along right after him.

“Did that seem odd, to you?”

“The shoreline collapsing like that?” Ulic walked forward into Obi-Wan’s line of sight, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Well, it’s old land, and that ocean isn’t tame. The water could have eaten away at the rocks at the base of the cliff.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “It could have. But what are the chances that it would happen right then, as I was standing on it?”

“You think someone was trying to kill you?” Ulic looked disturbed. “That would be a very short suspect list, kid.”

“No. I think someone was trying to make me very, very angry,” he said, and smiled. “What luck; they succeeded.”

“Obi-Wan,” Ulic began, and then actually took a step back when Venge turned his head to glare at him.

“No,” said Venge. “Stop doing that. I’ll be right back.”

“Kid, where are you go—”

He shifted himself halfway across the planet before Ulic could finish the sentence. It wasn’t going to do his potential concussion any favors, but some things needed to be dealt with in person.

The monastery was still sitting on top of the mountain, just as he remembered. He strode inside, heading straight for the central part of the hanging platforms. He couldn’t see anything, but he knew that Isuheel was nearby.

One of the statues had topped to the floor. Good; one less thing to break. “What. The hell. Do you want?” Venge bit out.

The old man’s ghost swirled into existence in an unimpressive, pointless display of mist and light. “Greetings, Obi-Wan,” Isuheel said.

Venge rolled his eyes. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Ah. Venge.” Isuheel offered him a faint, mocking nod. “My apologies.”

“What do you want, Isuheel?”

“I see that you were capable of retaining the images I showed you.” Isuheel reached out with one transparent hand and touched the jagged edge of the broken statue. “I’m glad.”

Venge felt Ulic arrive behind him…and Qui-Gon was with him. That was either very good, or very bad.

“Kid—”

“Shut up, I’m talking to an asshole,” Venge said without turning, gesturing for Ulic to be quiet. “Look. You dropped a fucking cliff on my head, trying to get my attention. Stop being pretentiously coy and tell me what the hell you want.”

“He did _what?”_ Venge heard Qui-Gon exclaim. “I’ll kill him!”

“Wait your turn,” Venge snapped.

“I am already dead,” Isuheel said, sounding far too smug for Venge’s taste. “It isn’t possible to cause my death twice.”

Venge raised both eyebrows. “I am still waiting for you to get to the point.”

“You used to have more patience than this,” Isuheel said.

“I used to be really fucking stupid, too,” Venge retorted. “Talk.”

Isuheel disappeared and reappeared within a few steps of Venge. “If you paid attention to what I showed you, then you should already be aware of what I wish of you.”

Venge smiled, wondering if Isuheel thought he was being intimidating. “Perhaps I just want you to enlighten me.”

Isuheel frowned. “Balance, Master Kenobi.”

Venge resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. “You want—oh, dear fucking gods. You have been poking and prodding for weeks now, interrupting my sleep, dropping rocks on my head, and generally being a complete nuisance…because you want me to fill a role? Because you want _balance?_ There is no such thing!”

“You are a Sith, Lord Venge,” Isuheel said, staring down at him. “Even the Sith believe in balance.”

Venge gave him a disbelieving look. “The Sith do not believe in balance. The prophecy was a means to facilitate genocide, not a mystic damned way of balancing the scales.”

Isuheel’s face darkened, as did his aura. “You must stay,” he said. “Balance _must_ be maintained.”

Venge snorted. “Oh, I think you’re well on your way to replacing Entroija, but if it’s balance of the self that you’re after, I have to say that death does not agree with you.”

“And who is responsible for that?” Isuheel shook his head. “You and your Chosen One killed my children.”

“We? You say we did that?” Venge gave Isuheel a look of polite disbelief. “Who sent out that message? Who brought us here? Who left such a temptation for Entroija? Who pitted two loving siblings against each other for _millennia_ because of some foolish notion of balance?” Venge shook his head. “We didn’t kill your children, Isuheel. You did.”

Isuheel’s eyes narrowed. “Their lives would have been spared if your Chosen One would have done as he should!”

“That is your own opinion. An unsubstantiated opinion, I might add.” Venge sighed. “Are we done here? Or are you going to keep up with your attempts at aggressive posturing?”

Isuheel’s ghost gained height, the ice blue of his eyes burning like foxfire. “I may be dead, but my strength is not diminished. You would test my power against yours?”

“Power? What power?” Venge reached out, catching hold of several dozen glimmering, metaphysical threads and giving them a vicious twist. Isuheel screeched and fell to his knees. His form flickered before gaining as much solidity as the ghosts behind Venge. “We are in a wellspring, you fucking idiot.”

Isuheel stood up on shaky legs. A great deal of his confidence seemed to have evaporated with his intangible form. What Venge had done wasn’t permanent, but Isuheel didn’t seem to know that. “You would do to me what you did to Vowrawn?”

“Oh, you mean that thing I have technically not done yet?” Venge tilted his head. “Were you stupid enough to tie your entire essence to your home’s anchor point?”

Isuheel hesitated, a look of surprise crossing his features. “I…I do not actually know.”

“Well, then.” Venge strode forward, grabbed Isuheel by the collar, and proceeded to drag him out of the monastery. “Let’s find out.”

Qui-Gon looked as if he were going to say something, but all Ulic did was shove him out of Venge’s path as he passed by. Venge was gritting his teeth; Isuheel was making one hell of a racket for someone who’d lived for twenty-five thousand years. He’d expected a bit more dignity.

“You might want to leave,” he tossed over his shoulder, and then shifted himself and Isuheel to the nearest mountainside, onto a ledge with a brilliant view of the monastery. Ulic and Qui-Gon both showed up a moment later.

“What are you doing?” Qui-Gon asked, in what Venge thought was a pretty mild tone of voice, all things considered.

Venge lifted his hand and pointed. “That.”

“Fuck, Kid,” Ulic whispered, as the monastery began to collapse in on itself. It was quiet at first, but it wasn’t long before the loud roar of crashing rock, breaking stone, and falling debris reached their ears. The diamond at the top dropped with a faint whistle and disappeared into the dirty cloud rising from the wreckage. Half of the monastery’s original stonework went tumbling down the mountainside, disappearing into the mist of the valley below.

Venge glanced over to find Isuheel still standing there, staring at the wreckage in dismay. “Oh, look. You weren’t as stupid as Vowrawn, after all.”

“Why did you do that?” Isuheel asked in a faint voice.

Venge crossed his arms. “First off—you’re dead. You do not actually need a house any longer; it’s just convenient. Second, and most importantly: _You dropped a fucking cliff on my head._ The difference between us is that I was nice enough to remove you from your home before I broke it.”

Isuheel looked his age, bent and broken by vast swaths of time. “What should I do?”

“I think you need to leave this planet, go out there, and discover why your entire philosophy is utter garbage. Oh, and there is one more thing.” Venge pinned Isuheel was a glare, fueled by the unpleasant amount of pain he was in. “If you ever come near my family— _any_ of them—you will discover that Entroija had a merciful death.”

“But—my daughter—” Isuheel whispered.

“Is not nearly as foolish as you are,” Venge said, irritated by the delay. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear: _Leave_. Just because you cannot die twice does not mean you cannot cease to exist.”

Isuheel’s eyes widened, sudden realization accompanied by fear. He disappeared in the next moment.

Venge teleported himself back to the house when he was certain that Isuheel was gone. He dropped down onto the stone bench he’d awoken on that morning, leaned forward, and rested his head in his hands. He hurt all over, but to his relief there was no taste of blood at the back of his mouth.

Qui-Gon appeared next, though Ulic wasn’t with him. “May I sit?” he asked in a quiet voice.

In answer, Venge patted the benchtop beside him before putting his hands back over his face.

Qui-Gon sat down, close enough that Venge could feel he had arrived in solid form, not intangible. “I see you have not lost the disturbing habit of doing terrible things to yourself the moment my back is turned.”

Venge managed a brief, weak laugh. “No, I haven’t.”

“What he said about Vowrawn—what was that?” Qui-Gon asked.

“Wrecked an annoying dead Sith Lord’s tomb from thousands of lightyears away,” Venge answered. “No more anchor point.”

“That’s incredible.”

“No, it is not. It’s fucking terrifying,” Venge said in a strangled voice. He was on the verge of either sobbing or screaming. Perhaps both. “Believe me, I really do understand why you have no wish to be near me.”

“And yet, I’m sitting right next to you,” Qui-Gon replied. “If that were true, I’ve chosen an odd place to be.”

Venge shook his head. He had no idea what to say, other than, “I’m sorry,” or “I am a fucking _wreck_ ,” but he felt like he was choking, and couldn’t get the words out.

Qui-Gon seemed to sigh. “Come here,” he said, putting his arm around Venge’s shoulders. Venge leaned in close, shuddering, and still nearly bolted when he was fully embraced.

“Breathe,” Qui-Gon murmured against his hair. “That’s all I want you to do right now. Just breathe.”

It took longer than it should have to calm down, and even then, Venge came so close to hyperventilating that he worried about passing out. He wasn’t sure if his difficulty came from the day’s events, or yesterday’s gods-awful conclusion.

“Do you realize that you have a severe concussion?” Qui-Gon asked.

“Huh.” Venge closed his eyes as Qui-Gon’s warm hand settled on the back of his neck, the touch far more soothing than he’d expected. It made him realize he was still chilled from the damned ocean.

“Indeed,” Qui-Gon murmured, dry-voiced in response to Venge’s lack of concern. “Three cracked vertebrae and four cracked ribs, too.”

Venge considered the size of the rock that had tried to drown him. “That would explain quite a bit.”

Qui-Gon sounded frustrated. “How could you not notice?”

“I don’t…I don’t really feel pain the way I should,” Venge said. It wasn’t the first time he’d broken bones and attributed the pain to lesser injuries.

“Why not?”

Venge sighed; he could feel heat seeping into his back from the contact point. Force healing. “My entire existence is pain. All of it, from the very beginning until now. I don’t know anything else.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Qui-Gon closed his eyes. _Gods all, Obi-Wan,_ he thought. That was a terrible mindset to be trapped in.

He seemed calm at the moment, but Qui-Gon could feel the falseness to it. Venge’s temper was resting on a thin, fragile braid of wire, and most of its threads had already frayed away.

 _Keep pushing,_ Ulic said.

Qui-Gon repaired the damage to the last of the cracked vertebrae, resisting the urge to sigh. _I don’t want to do this to him._

 _I know._ Ulic sounded resigned. _I’d take on the role if I could, but it has to be you._

Qui-Gon frowned; Venge twitched, as if sensing the change in mood. _You already know how this is going to go_.

_Let’s just say that I have a theory._

Qui-Gon removed his hand, shaking off the last tingling vestiges of energy. Venge sat up, lifting and turning his head in a stretch that made knotted muscles and angry tendons pop and crack.

“You have that look on your face,” Venge said.

“Which one is that?” Qui-Gon asked, and even to him his voice was laden with sorrow.

Venge seemed amused. “The look that says, ‘I have done something terrible, I do not know how to fix it, and oh, yes, we may need to run.’”

“Is that what it is?” Qui-Gon shook his head. “I just…I don’t want pain to be all that you know, Obi-Wan.”

Venge flinched. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

“Which part?” Qui-Gon asked. “Offer sympathy, or call you by your name?”

Venge hesitated before turning his head to stare at Qui-Gon. The faint amber glow of his eyes was emphasized by the shadow cast from the fall of his hair. “I want…I want you to call me by _my_ name.”

Qui-Gon steeled himself. He could all but hear more of those frayed threads tightening to the breaking point. “Why is that so important to you?”

“It tells me that you are not looking past what I am to what you hope to find,” Venge said, his voice low and intent. “You are seeing _me._ I am right here; this is who I am.”

“Perhaps,” Qui-Gon granted him, “but it’s not all that you are.”

He could almost hear the threads snap. There was no overt change to Venge’s expression; it was in the way his shoulders lowered, the lifting of his chin. Those were familiar signs that Obi-Wan was preparing himself for an argument…or a fight.

Even with the warning, Qui-Gon was still surprised when Venge attacked. A physical strike combined with one hell of a Force push knocked him backwards off the bench. He hit hard on his back, breath leaving his lungs in a painful rush. The sudden pounce in the hallway had seemed like a controlled fall; this was anything but.

Then Venge was upon him, his teeth bared, eyes wide and blazing like they were burning from within. Qui-Gon raised his hands on nothing more than old, trained instincts and caught Venge by the shoulders to keep him at bay.

The flash of silver was enough of a surprise that Qui-Gon felt a spike of panic, more so when cold metal was pressed against his throat. He couldn’t die, not twice, but he could be wounded—and he had no desire to find out what it would be like.

He gasped from the sting when blade parted skin. Warmth ran down both sides of his neck and into his hair.

“Is it not?” Venge whispered. There was a fury in his expression that was frightening to behold. Then he was gone, disappearing quickly enough that Qui-Gon wound up shoving at empty air before he could correct himself.

Qui-Gon dropped his head back onto the ground, trying to catch his breath. “That could have gone better.”

Ulic walked up and stood peering down at him. “You all right?”

“Just bleeding.” Qui-Gon touched his neck and winced as his fingers encountered raw, tender flesh. The wound was deeper than a scratch, but it was nowhere near a mortal wound, making it easy to heal.

Ulic shook his head and offered his hand, pulling Qui-Gon up from the ground. “You must have really pissed him off.”

“I think so.” Qui-Gon couldn’t sense Venge anywhere nearby, but that was nothing new. The man had taken his and Yoda’s old lessons on hiding and turned it into a damned art form.

“We’re close,” Ulic said, and glanced down. “Thieving little bastard. He left most of the knives where I’d put them, so I wouldn’t notice that some were missing.”

Qui-Gon nodded. The knife Venge used was lying on the stone, its blade smeared red. He picked it up, holding it point down.

Ulic must have sensed how he felt. “Just remember: It’s either this or insanity. Or worse, Sidious.”

“I know.” Qui-Gon wiped the knife clean on his trousers, where the stain wouldn’t show. “It just seems like all I ever do is cause him pain.”

“Not true at all. Push now, Jinn, and enjoy the reward later. Oh, yeah, you fucked up,” Ulic said, when Qui-Gon gave him a confused look. “Then and now, you’re the same person, if lacking a few dozen experiences.”

“It’s really not supposed to work that way,” Qui-Gon said. He still had no idea if he would have arranged for that very thing, or tried to avoid it entirely.

“There is no ‘if’ here, Qui-Gon.” Ulic smiled. “If you don’t trust me, then trust the man who is Lifebonded to you. He would know.”

“Right.” Qui-Gon took a steadying breath. He’d tried very hard not to dwell on that fact, and the reminder made it both easier and harder to proceed.

He found Venge standing at the broken edge of the foot trail. The remains of what had been the island’s southern coastline were half-submerged in the ocean. Even knowing what had happened, the change in the landscape was a shock.

Venge’s hair had finally dried, hanging in thick, salt-crusted strands. The wind was tugging at his shirt, revealing tears in the cloth from whatever had struck him during the cliff’s collapse.

“I brought your knife back,” Qui-Gon said, after waiting long minutes without Venge’s acknowledgement.

That gained him Venge’s attention. He turned his head, revealing not more anger, but far too much grief. Then his eyes narrowed at the sight of the blade that Qui-Gon was holding out in his right hand. In the next moment, the knife began to disintegrate. Metal fell to the rocky ground in a fine mist of silvery powder.

Qui-Gon’s eyes widened. Force, no wonder Ulic had been so paranoid. “Molecular deconstruction—I’d no idea you knew how to do that.”

“It’s a bit new,” Venge answered, glancing away. “I made the hilt for my lightsaber that way.”

“Was it destroyed?” Qui-Gon asked. There had been no lightsaber remnants on the scorched island, and Ulic hadn’t mentioned hiding anything else.

Venge shook his head. “I left it with you. I didn’t want it to be—” He smiled. “I didn’t want it to be corrupted.”

The knife continued to deteriorate. The hilt was gone, and the blade was starting to vanish, as if eaten by unseen creatures. “That’s amazing.”

Venge seemed bothered by the praise. “I suppose.”

There was something about the answer that gave him pause. “What were you doing up here?”

Venge still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I was wondering what happens to someone who is killed with a binding-spelled blade.”

Qui-Gon felt his stomach turn over at the thought. “I thought you told me you weren’t suicidal.”

“I’m not. I wasn’t. I—” Venge looked distressed. “I just don’t see a way out of this.”

 _Dammit,_ Qui-Gon thought, with a distant sort of anger. “It wouldn’t help. Or do you not realize that we would both still be right here? You don’t get out of this so easily.”

“I thought that was what you wanted!” Venge finally rounded on him, seething. “Wasn’t that the point of that stupid fucking box?”

“No.” Qui-Gon had to calm himself before he could continue. He hadn’t liked that solution even when it had been the _only_ way to keep Obi-Wan from unravelling completely. “That was a stop-gap. It was never meant to be permanent. One way or another, alive or dead, those memories would still have to be faced. You _do_ still have to face them.”

“And yet, I’m standing here,” Venge snarled. “What do you think is left for me to face?”

“Your name,” Qui-Gon replied. He winced when lightning struck the ground behind Venge, but didn’t let it interrupt what needed to be said. “Do you wish for me to call you Venge? I will, if you tell me that’s what you really want. I just want to know why you insist upon a name that _Sidious_ gave you, especially when…” Qui-Gon paused; it was almost as difficult to say the words as it would be for them to be heard. “Especially when Sidious most often called you by that name when he was wearing my face.”

Venge looked as if he’d been struck. “I—I can’t,” he whispered.

“Why not?” Qui-Gon asked, his voice equally soft.

The sudden explosion of rage still caught him off-guard. _“He made me hate you!”_ Raw emotion bled out into the Force, tearing jagged wounds in the sky. “The one fucking thing I had left, the one thing I’d held onto, and he twisted it until I wished I’d never felt it at all!”

Qui-Gon closed his eyes. He hadn’t expected that, and yet, he should have known. He’d seen far too much of Sidious’s manipulations to believe any part of Obi-Wan had emerged unscathed.

When he looked again, Venge was still standing there, shadowed by whatever wrongness has developed above them. He didn’t even spare it a glance; the most important thing he had ever known was standing right in front of him.

Qui-Gon lifted his hand. Venge cringed at the gesture, but didn’t try to back away. He held himself immobile as Qui-Gon placed his hand on Venge’s face, fingertips just touching the soft skin above his cheekbone.

“Ben,” he said.

Venge’s eyes widened. “What did you say?”

Qui-Gon smiled. “I called you by your name. You’ve already gone by Ben for years—isn’t that also who you are?”

The energy coalescing above their heads changed. It still didn’t feel like it belonged, but it no longer felt like oppressive, destructive potential. Venge’s hand was trembling, but when his fingers touched Qui-Gon’s lips, there was no painful static discharge as there had been before.

“Say it, please." Venge’s voice was quiet, his eyes full of stark pleading. “I’m so tired of feeling like this.”

Qui-Gon grasped Venge’s hands, lowering them until their joined hands were resting on his chest. “I love you,” he said, “and I am so very sorry for all that’s ever gone wrong between us.”

Venge drew in a ragged breath. “Ass.” His eyes were still amber, but the glow was far less intense. “Why did you not ever tell me that before?”

“You weren’t ready to hear it,” Qui-Gon replied, then inclined his head. “Or, I’m an idiot. One of the two.”

There was a mischievous glint in Venge’s eyes that Qui-Gon hadn’t seen in the entire time he’d been on Mortis. “Both,” he declared, and then looked up.

Qui-Gon followed his gaze to discover that the sky has been blocked out by a massive portal. A dark vortex spread out, fading to incandescent violet and green edges as it turned. There was a deep hum in the Force, something that felt almost like the rumble of a living thing.

“So that is a Force Storm,” Qui-Gon said. He hadn’t quite been able to see the one Sidious cast several years ago on Coruscant. The energy translation between his place in reality and the Storm’s actual existence had prevented it. He had only been able to witness the results.

However, this time Qui-Gon refrained from mentioning it. He was all but certain that Obi-Wan had never realized that Sidious killed him that day. There had been a brief moment when Qui-Gon had almost been capable of reaching out to touch him…and then Sidious had ripped open the Force and dragged Obi-Wan back to life.

“No.” Venge’s fingers tightened in Qui-Gon’s grasp. “Sidious makes Storms. I just make wormholes.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Sidious thinks that it is only anger and will that create a Storm, but he’s wrong. Believe me, I tried to make one that way, but the energy never took shape,” Venge said, without taking his eyes off of the wormhole. “I didn’t figure out the third element until the day I lost Fieff, Dravaco, Suva, and Rava. That third element will get you a wormhole, but the thing Sidious creates…” Venge frowned. “What he makes feels _wrong_ , and it looks fucking horrific.”

Qui-Gon didn’t know what that other aspect could be…but Venge had come close to replicating it, so very damned close. He didn’t mention that, either; he suspected Venge already knew. “How do you get rid of it?”

Venge bent down, picked up a rock, and placed it into Qui-Gon’s hand. “Feed it.”

Qui-Gon gave him a perplexed stare. “Seriously?”

“Well, we fed the last one money, and I don’t know about you, but I didn’t bring any credits.” Venge was smiling. “Go ahead.”

Qui-Gon smiled back. “Fine, but next time you’re feeding it,” he said, and threw the stone directly at the vortex. It was claimed by long fingers of blue electricity before vanishing into the darkness. The wormhole rippled, shrank, and then disappeared.

“Well, that’s different,” Qui-Gon said, and then turned and caught Venge just as he started to slump. “Oh, no you don’t.”

“I’m all right,” Venge muttered, but he was pale, and doing a miserable job of trying to stand back up.

“Did you eat anything today?” Qui-Gon asked, taking an educated guess.

“Er—no.” Venge made a face. “I was too busy dealing with falling rocks, trying not to drown, banishing a dead asshole, and oh, yes, this.” He tilted his head consideringly. “There was also a giant talking squid, but I’m not convinced I didn’t hallucinate that part.”

“Talking squid,” Qui-Gon repeated, amused.

“Giant _ancient_ talking squid with the intelligence of a smart dog,” Venge amended, after a moment. “That’s why I’m going with hallucination until proven otherwise.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Qui-Gon took him back to the house. The bottom fell out of Venge’s stomach upon arrival, telling him that he wouldn’t have made it on his own, teleporting _or_ walking. Qui-Gon didn’t need to suggest sitting; Venge sat down on the courtyard bench to keep his head from spinning.

Ulic gave him a long, searching look, and then disappeared inside before returning with a mug that had steam rising from it. “Drink this, and try not to sick it back up.”

He guessed broth, but while the liquid had a strong flavor, he couldn’t identify it at all.   “What is this?”

Ulic frowned. “It’s keeping you from falling on your ass.”

“That is a terrible name,” Venge said, and then leaned forward, doing his level best _not_ to vomit it back up. “Fuck.”

It took a while before he could manage to drink the rest of it, but at least he no longer felt like he was going to pass out. Qui-Gon was then kind enough to bring him tea, and the sight of it made him smile.

“It’s a red.” He glanced up to find a hesitant look on Qui-Gon’s face.

“I thought…it was the red, yes?” Qui-Gon ducked his head. “It’s been a while.”

“Yes,” Venge said, ridiculously pleased by the gesture. He swallowed a mouthful of the blend, which always tasted like a green that someone had managed to caramelize. It felt like it had been months—no, it _had_ been months since he’d last had the tea.

“What are you staring at?” he asked Ulic without looking up.

“I’m just waiting for the break,’ Ulic replied.

Venge wrapped his hands around the mug as Qui-Gon sat down beside him. “Honestly, so am I.” There had been no random change of perspective, and that worried him. “I’m crazy, not unobservant,” he continued, when Qui-Gon gave a guilty wince and Ulic swore.

“Then you are the most recalcitrant, stubborn fucker in existence,” Ulic grumbled. “You certainly didn’t make the process any easier.”

Venge leaned against Qui-Gon’s shoulder. “Didn’t know what you wanted.” He couldn’t quite admit that he was so used to having the mindset of…of prodding at things, that Qui-Gon and Ulic’s behavior hadn’t seemed unusual at all.

“Sanity,” Ulic said dryly. “Yours, specifically.”

“Mm.” Venge thought about it. Sanity might be nice. It had certainly been awhile.

“In the meantime, I suggest a bath,” Qui-Gon said.

“Any particular reason?” Venge asked.

“You smell like stale, electrified salt water.”

Venge smiled. “Ah, there is the flattery to which I am accustomed.”

He stayed long enough to finish the tea. The headache that had been plaguing him all day had been calmed by both tea and mystery broth, and he no longer felt like standing would also involve falling down.

The ’fresher actually made him wonder if he was potentially hallucinating for a second time. In the open area of the shower was a large, free-standing bathtub. Venge stared at it, rubbed his eyes, and sighed. “I can take a hint,” he muttered.

The water still wasn’t hot, as usual. After filling the tub, Venge conjured enough fire to heat the metal. The flame brought the water up to a suitable temperature, but also made his head feel like it was being inundated by a shrill whistle.

The bath made him realize how much he still ached. He submerged and spent a grim, frustrating amount of time trying to scrub salt from his hair and beard. The soap made the cuts on his hands burn.

He stared at the red, angry lines across his palms, wondering if he wanted to put himself through a bout of Sith healing just to deal with a minor injury. Then he thought, for the first time, _Why does it have to be Sith healing? I’m pissed off, but I’m not_ him.

Finally, he gave up and let his head drop back against the rim of the tub. Even if he wanted to make the attempt, he wasn’t quite sure how to do it. He closed his eyes, resolutely telling himself _not_ to fall asleep.

_—the ground beneath his feet is gone, he’s falling—_

He jerked awake, half-panicked, and splashed a good portion of the bathwater out onto the floor. “What the fuck,” he gasped. His heart was racing. It took him a few seconds to realize where he was, and that the cliff collapse had been hours ago.

He pulled the plug so that the water would drain, climbing out and finding a towel. It still bothered him that they just sort of appeared and disappeared as needed—

_—he blanked out, had to have, because now he is being rolled like a broken droid, tumbling end over end. He catches a brief glimpse of blue sky and then he’s plunged back into blackness that forces its way up his nose and into his mouth. Water, he’s in the river, when did—_

He woke up and was even more confused than before. He was dressed, but he was also lying on the floor. There was water beneath him, soaking into his clothes. His head hurt, and somehow, he’d lost the last few minutes entirely—

_—there is something holding him down, facedown, watery muck, he cannot fucking breathe—_

He came to with a jolt, desperately trying to get air. _What the hell—what is—where—_

He was losing his sense of place. “Qui,” he whispered, without knowing if he would be heard.

He had no idea how long it was before he felt the air change. “Obi-Wan? What’s—” the words were bitten off, and then Qui-Gon was there, pulling him off of the cold floor and onto his lap. “Obi-Wan, look at me. What’s happening?”

He stared up at Qui-Gon, puzzled by the fear in his eyes. “I’m—” _having flashbacks_ , he meant to say, but then he was lost in another one. This water was crystal clear, warm, and killing him, because he was too shocked to remember not to let it. All he could hear were the screams of the dying, the echo of thousands of lives ending all at once. They sounded in his head in a non-stop litany that scraped him raw.

_Obi-Wan!_

The shout snapped him back into place, long enough to realize that Qui-Gon was all but radiating terror. He felt like he was sinking.

“Obi-Wan, no,” Qui-Gon said, clasping his hand to Obi-Wan’s head, yanking on some of his hair in the process. The sharp pain recaptured the fading threads of his attention. “You have to master this. You _cannot_ let it control you!”

Obi-Wan managed a weak nod, but he still had no idea what was going on. He was—

He was—

He was drowning.

He was drowning, but there was no water. The flood was in his mind, a tidal wave of memory released by the block’s unexpected destruction.

He was aware of being held, that he didn’t want to be, but he could not focus. He had done—he had performed some final action that he could no longer recall.

Something blunt and terrible was thrust into the lightsaber wound that had almost killed him. He gasped at the pain, a scream he couldn’t quite voice.

Obi-Wan looked up, and the Chancellor—no; Senator Palpatine— _Sidious_ was peering down at him. He was holding Obi-Wan, a gentle cradling that was entirely at odds with the blazing, reptilian amber of his eyes. Obi-Wan opened his mouth, but no sound emerged.

“Now, then,” Sidious said, smiling. He was—hand, hand in his hair. Sidious, petting him? What—why—

“You are so very young, now, and yet not young at all,” Palpatine said. “Claiming you would be such a pleasure.”

That kindled his rage, so much of it, seething hatred that made his eyes burn. That rule…that rule had _not_ changed. There was a rule, it existed, it would not be violated—

“There you are,” Sidious said. His smile became sharper, edged with cruel pleasure. “No true Sith can ever be locked away for long. Now we can speak as equals.”

“Not,” he rasped. Not equals. Venge was better; Venge would have bested Sidious had Sidious not called upon his Storm…and he lost his focus again, head lolling to the side.

The pain returned, worse than before. It felt like shards of metal being shoved into his body. Obi-Wan cried out and then choked on the sound.

“You will pay attention,” Sidious told him in a mild voice. “Won’t you, my apprentice?”

The pain ebbed, but did not entirely leave him. There was not enough air, but he spoke anyway, more a mouthing of words than actual sound. “Fuck you.”

“Now there is the defiance to which I am accustomed.”

It was bad enough that Sidious was _pleased_. Obi-Wan was so destroyed by Jeng Droga, by the block’s destruction, that any defense he could muster would be laughable, at best, but if the Sith did not stop caressing his hair, Venge was going to snap.

“When I was asked to return here, to this time and place, I did pretend to refuse, at first,” Sidious said, which made no fucking sense whatsoever. “Then, he told me that _you_ would be here, _all_ of you, just as I would be. How could I resist such lovely bait?”

The confusion must have been in his eyes, on his face…in his thoughts. Sidious chuckled. “Oh. You do not recall that, either. Perhaps you were not asked. Perhaps you were dragged back to this time, screaming all the while.”

Venge made a faint noise of disagreement. _Not likely._ Sidious didn’t lie, but he would often infer. That last part did not feel like truth, just manipulation.

“Really?” Sidious asked him, and drove that prodding back into his gut, sharp and agonizing. Obi-Wan breathed out on a ragged scream, his nerve endings alight like burning fire.

“Such shoddy Jedi healing,” Sidious murmured. “Sith healing would be far more complete than this, but it should be expected. Had the Jedi not trapped you in your own mind, you would never have been struck down by a fool such as Droga. Perhaps they wanted you to fail?”

Venge gritted his teeth and reached down, grabbing a hold of Sidious’s hand with as much strength as he could muster. Palpatine’s skin was slick with blood; his fingers were pressed into the reopened wound like cruel talons. “No,” he hissed. Refuting the accusation, the torture, Sidious himself—Obi-Wan did not care, but this was going to _stop_.

“No,” Sidious crooned, leaning close. His breath was full of the rot that hid within him. “It isn’t going to stop until I have what I want.”

Cold acid burned into his mind, his thoughts. Obi-Wan fought back, enraged. There would be no easy victory for the Sith. If he was lost, then so fucking be it, but Venge was not going to give in without fighting and tearing and clawing the entire damned way.

Black threads wound their way around the bright strands that composed his fledgling Lifebond. _No!_ he thought, panicked. _Not that, you do not get that, you will not!_

His eyes shut tight, Obi-Wan raised his hands, as if he could actually ward the Sith away with sheer fucking willpower alone—

 _No._   He hadn’t had to do that. He’d…there had been—

_AnakinQui-GonRillianGarenYodaMaceAdiSiriPadméMicah_

—allies. Family. He hadn’t been alone.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes, blinking until he could focus. He was still being held, and experienced a jolt of terror until he heard Qui-Gon’s voice, a litany that was very close to prayer.

“—please, Ben, _please_ come back. I know you can do this, just—” his voice broke.

“I’ve—” Obi-Wan tried, and had to cough when all that emerged was a strangled whisper.

“Gods.” Qui-Gon drew back, staring down at him in open concern. “Obi-Wan?”

“I’ve got to do something about my shielding,” Obi-Wan said, trying to smile.

“You should, yes,” Qui-Gon said, sounding shaky. “That would be nice.” He took a breath. “Are you all right?”

Obi-Wan couldn’t answer, not at first. He was just—he’d had enough. He had completely and utterly hit his limit. He didn’t want to be the object of Sidious’s unwanted attention. He could not bear the idea that there might be years of the same, or worse, lurking in his future.

He opened his mouth to say yes, to push through this. He could get _past_ this. What came out instead was a broken, pathetic sob.

Qui-Gon closed his eyes. “Oh, Ben,” he said, and drew him back into his arms. Obi-Wan clutched tabard and tunic in his left hand, pressed his face against soft cloth, and screamed grief and rage against Qui-Gon’s chest. It hurt; it was a purge of the worst sort from wounds that had festered for too damned long.

It took a while for screaming to become tears, for tears to give way to heaving breaths. Qui-Gon held him the entire time, saying nothing, doing nothing except running his hands through Obi-Wan’s hair.

Obi-Wan found himself staring at the far wall, contemplating the cracks in the ancient mortar. Everything seemed gray and washed out. Even the touch of Qui-Gon’s hand felt distant and far away. It was so hard to concentrate, so hard to…to…

“I am so tired,” he whispered.

“I know.” Qui-Gon sighed. “Don’t hit me,” he said, securing Obi-Wan in his arms before standing up.

“Why would I do that?” he asked, as he was carried from the ‘fresher to the bedroom.

“You hate being carried,” Qui-Gon said in a wry voice.

“That’s silly,” he muttered, and fell asleep before he even made it to the bed.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Qui-Gon was so exhausted that his eyes felt hot and dry. Both feelings were all but foreign after so many years of life on the other side of the veil. He’d chosen to lie down on the bed with Obi-Wan out of continued concern, but he also just didn’t have the energy left to leave.

Ulic appeared, more insubstantial than solid. _Things all right?_

 _They are,_ Qui-Gon replied. He wasn’t certain what the results of the day would ultimately bring, but the worst possibilities no longer threatened. Ulic nodded and vanished again.

He desperately needed to sleep, but every time he nodded off, his mind tortured him with the sight of Obi-Wan lying on the ’fresher floor, all but insensible. Qui-Gon and Ulic had expected an emotional breakdown—a necessary one, at that. They had _not_ expected Obi-Wan’s mind to try and fracture along old lines of damage.

Qui-Gon watched him, eyes alighting on details that should have been the same but weren’t at all. There were more faint lines around Obi-Wan’s eyes than a man of twenty-two should bear. He hadn’t grown in a beard during the start of Anakin’s apprenticeship. That had come later, closer to the war that had bleached first ginger, then copper, from his hair. The scar from Taro Tre, so damned long ago, was still visible, its white edge highlighted by the color Obi-Wan’s skin had gained from the equatorial sun.

He reached out and pushed a lock of Obi-Wan’s hair away from his face when it fell forward. Obi-Wan still tried to burrow through a pillow in his sleep, and he hadn’t lost the habit of keeping one hand tucked beneath it, fingers resting on whatever weapon had been secreted away. The practice had come from Mandalore, when a mission of two weeks had become six months of running, hiding, guerilla fighting, attacks at a moment’s notice…

He started awake some unknown time later, and realized Obi-Wan was watching him in silence. Qui-Gon blinked sleep dredges from his thoughts; Obi-Wan’s hand was resting over his, his thumb tracing gentle, repeated circles against Qui-Gon’s skin.

Obi-Wan’s eyes were the pale silver that Fire’s caustic ravages had created. There was a faint, uneven smudge of blue at the edges of his irises and a lone fleck of green in his left eye, all that remained to mark what had once been.

Obi-Wan smiled at him, noticing where his attention had gone. “Bit different, isn’t it? A lot more obvious than what happened the first time.”

“It is different,” Qui-Gon agreed, his voice rough from sleep.

“I always thought the paler blue had come from the desert suns,” Obi-Wan said wistfully. “Why not, right? They sure as hell bleached out everything else.”

“Clothes, tools, machinery, hair,” Qui-Gon listed, with a faint quirk of a smile.

Obi-Wan nodded. “That, too. When you see me again, it’s all white. Not a bit of color left.” He stretched, a distracting sort of feline gracefulness, and then rested his head back down on the pillow to regard Qui-Gon again.

“You don’t have a bit of trouble telling time, do you?”

“No.” Qui-Gon felt an intense moment of regret. “Not at all.”

“What happened, then?” Obi-Wan asked. He stopped tracing circles against the back of Qui-Gon’s hand, but didn’t draw away.

“There were nights that you would dream, and the block wouldn’t function as it should,” Qui-Gon said. “Some of those times, you needed a redirect. Sometimes it was violent, and there was no redirection that would help. It is very, very difficult to sit on someone to keep them from hurting themselves when you are not actually a corporeal being,” he pointed out, smiling, and was gratified when Obi-Wan quirked an amused eyebrow in response.

“Then there were the worst nights. You would get…” Qui-Gon hesitated. “Stuck, I suppose. You would be awake and yet not, caught in something close to a dream state. That was…that was harder to deal with, but any of the three would eat up the energy it took to even be present. I would lose hours or days to recovering, and when you started suggesting that I was abysmal at keeping track of time, I went with it.” He smiled again. “There are worse cover stories.”

“I imagine there are.” Obi-Wan looked apologetic. “I am a complete pain in the ass, aren’t I?”

“It was a worthwhile endeavor,” Qui-Gon replied.

“I suppose,” Obi-Wan allowed, though he pulled Qui-Gon’s hand to his lips and kissed the edges of his knuckles. “Thank you.”

“Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon waited until their eyes met again. “I would do it a thousand times over again and more.”

Obi-Wan smiled, his eyes brightening until it seemed like the silver had become luminescent. “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for Sidious being a seriously creepy fuck, as usual - sort-of non-sexualized non-con and, oh, abject torture.


End file.
